An Infiltrator in Hogwarts
by old copperhead
Summary: The fruits of a multi-generational Manichean struggle of Dark Wizatds and Light Wizards. Will love prevail?
1. Chapter 1

'To eat is a necessity. To eat intelligently is an art.'

-Francois de la Rochefoucauld.

(12 August)

'Take that!' sneered Harry Potter, recording his murderous exploits and later uploading them to the wizarding Internet.

Dovbby thrashed and twitched like a decrepit rhinoceros beetle of dementia and moronic senescence, face twisted into a rictus. He was magically Silenced anyhow, so the neighbors couldn't hear the piteous wails. As for the Harry's stepfamily, Mr Vernon Dursley had died months ago from a brain embolism caused by severe periodontal disease, Dudley was still at summercamp for the time being, and Petunia was...incapacitated.

Harry set the camera down, recording at low shittiness pool party fidelity, and clapped his hands and hooted after he unleashed another _Excruciatus Curse _at poor terrified Mr Dobby, whose eyes were threatening to burst into yumminess jelly of rheumy subhuman intraocular fluid. Sad to say, but the house elf's stuation was looking grim: he was hardly Mr Potter's first victim, and would not be his last...

(25 August)

First day of school for the Harry. He brushed his teeth, which were yellow liek golden life-giving Skybound Eye beyond the firmament, and he pissed into the Petunia mouth, who served as his sorcerously-transmogrified human toilet. 'Goodbye, whore. I'll be back in a few months, and when I am, you'll look back on these days with wistful fondness!' He smiled cruelly; the loud flushing was the idiotic shriek of a defeated muggle of despise. Dudley had made himself scarce these last few days isce returning from summercamp; very wise, but in the long-term, futile.

Ron and his 18-year-old brothers George and Fred, the latter two visibly enebriated, crashed into Harry's lawn, would have kileld themselves had it not been for their magical wards placed on the baby-blue Nipponese brand car.

'Hey, Harry,' said Ronald Weaselly sheepishly. He was sixteen, as was Harry, but far broader of shoulder and thicker of neck and arm; he used magic P90X to impress Ms Granger. He wore black baggy pants, black pentagram briefs, a Type O Negative t-shirt with Peter Steele glowering on the front, no socks, and black army boots stained with centaur diarrhea and Dementor vaginal mucus. The ride to Howgawrts was, thankfully, uneventful.

As it happens, the Whomping Willow murdered two first-years this very day, an eventuality predicted by Albus Dumbledore: the ancient marooned sage carefully hid his cares in labyrinth of illusory gentility and stoic life-principles and Christian _agape_. Ruben Hagrid was present at the Welcoming Feast: a great tall man, dishevelled and clad in the pelts of raped pine martens and wolves strangled by his own hand, bearded and leering with his eyes bulging to a maniacal extent. He towered over his colleagues as they-save Flitwick-would young children. He smelled like a Bangladeshi fishing boat.

Many others were present as well, such as Mrs McGonagall, Pumpfrey, Filch, Quirrell, Trelwany, and Professor Snape himself, still insistently dying his hair black despite the unwelcome encroachment of septuagenarian senescence. He scanned the premises and his gaze lingered on the Potter for a time, a fact which Harry pretended not to notice, what with Ronald and voluptuous nubile Hermione prettiness girl at either side of him.

However, unbeknownst, Mr Quirrell was manipulating the youngsters' mirror neurons and glucose levels and sorcerous chakra with subtle turns of his sheathed wand- his trousers had glove-shaped pockets - and elsewhere Draco Malfoty and his dimwitted dastardly doofuses Crabbe and Goyle were scoffing and grinning at seventh-year Hufflepuff girls, as the Draco nudged his friendly employees and they surreptitiously formed a bond of dangerous sex magic redirecting the sorcerous female pheromones in the airt.

Harry, Ronald, and Hemrione all shared a glance; great tribulations awaited them this fyear.

To be continued.


	2. Chapter 2

'Those who educate children well are more to be honored than those who produce them; for these only gave them life; those the art of living well.'

-Aristotle

Harry woke with a start, appalled to find his sheets and trousers soaked with blood-clotted renal colic urine. He considered waking Ronald and Finnegan and asking for their advice on this matter: back at the Dursleys', he would simply have burnt the sheets with his magic, and extorted PEtunia to pay for more at the propotiousness despised muggle bazaar in town. Potter stared out the window cryptically, posed like a Greek Hero pondering the interiority of pain and anguish.

Some feet away, Ron lay curled beatifically in slumber like a lion of puerility; on the bottom part of that same bunk, Mr Finnegan breathed gently and dreamed of derring-do and thwarted terrorism and Quidditch bludgeon stardom; farther away, Dean Thomas dreams of the freshest beats and breakdancing and stunning dark-blue waters of the Caribbean; farther away still, Nevile Longbottom quietly cries to himself and masturbates with an old National Geographic issue of desiccated pygmy corpses and mutilation war-crimes: all his other options have been exhausted. The gangly overbite boy's trousers and thong underwear were down to his ankles, under the covers. He was a fair bit older than the others in this dorm, having failed two or three years and flunked every Dark Arts and Potions exam he was ever given and ran away to Azkaban last year to try to kill the Bellatrix in her tight cell of elephant seal bones and mountain troll ballsack carcinomas.

The next morning, they all nearly dyed of fright...for a young intelligence girl from Ravenclaw House had been foound in the Common Room, brutally murdered by inane Satanic _maleficium_ of ancient black magic. Harry and Ron and Hemrione shared a concerned glance; could this have been the work of Severus Snape?

Meanwhile, Quirrell furtively leaned around the winding corner and fairly snickered at the panicked students and nearly-as-frightened faculty. The pallid scrawniness man of _Homo sapiens rattus _suddenly thought of the havoc soon to come to Hogwarts, all in the name of the Dark Lpord: the smile disappeared, his eyes bulged to unthinkable extent, his mouth drooped open as if he tried to swallow a bowling-ball, and a low moan escaped his gaping mouth; the rattling moan of a devious malefactor of callous devilry and eons-old hatred and sky-clad necrophilia orgies in the forests of Transylvania.

Dumbledore considered the matter carefully and dismissed the students to their dorm rooms and consulted with the McGonagall and Hagrid and Snape and Trwlany and they asked what was to be done?

'Hogwarts is not safe...not this year. Listen: we must bait this killer, for he means to strike again, and soon. But he will not do so openly, for he knows this is an opportunity to bleed us from a hundred wounds, all the while investors and parents lose faith in Hogwarts and attendance precipitously drops,' said Dumbledore grimly.

They looked among each other and opened their mouths but Snape said, 'Forgive me...but I know precisely the bait we need.' Ah yes, the savvy black-haired Potions prodigy of envy and despicability has become their Avenging Angel.

To be continued.


	3. Chapter 3

'Kiss my ass.'

-John Wayne Gacy

Like many of us, Mr Dumbledore was blind to things he didn't want to see. He assumed the best of Mr Thomas Riddle so many years past, he gave the Grindelwald the benefit of the doubt as well, he refused to accept that Hagrid was a poacher and a human trafficker, and he was in denial about the Potter's proclivity for torturing and killing small animals (including Hedwig) and non-human Beings. Sad, if you think about it.

Thus, days into the murderous imbroglio of intrigue and death, the man has been made a farce and a castrated cataleptic craven of counterinsurgency and clandestinities.

Menwhile, the lovely Hermione Granger was being reprimanded harshly by Argus Filch for walking out in the Halls at nighttime, especially with her high heels, miniskirt, half-unbuttoned white blouse, choker, gaudy earrings, and bangles.

'Sweetness dainty girl, ya can't be wanderin' these 'Alls lookin' and walkin' like that-it'll give these lads ideas. That's not to mention we got us a killer on the loose. Eh?' said the Squib of peevishness and envy and metastatic myeloma.

Hermione pouted sultrily. and put her hands behind her back in such a way that her breasts thrust forward and threartend to spill out of her top. She tossed her hair a bit too; it was golden like the sunrise over Zanzibar. She entreated him cleverly and perspicaciously to fuck her in the broom closet so this matter might be forgotten, but Filch was adamant, and besides, these days he could only get aroused by goblin cock-fingering porn. 'Off you go, young lady. Go back to your dorm.' With that, he took the Norris and departed the Hall, inspecting the perimeter elsewhere.

With that, Ms Granger was alone, and grinning coquettishly to herself, her cloaca slick with arousal. Attend me: Mr Quirrell leapt out behind her, an expression on his face that only the Thuggees of old India or rapist chimpanzee cannibals in the bowels of the Congo could possibly fathom. He used his sorcery to temporarily alter the girl's metabolism and basal ganglia such that she was too sick and tired and torpid to resist. She was quickly bound and gagged with incredible tightness; ropes at her ankles and wrists and thighs and upper arms, and cleave-gagged so ruthlessly taut that her face was distorted, and try as she might to dislodge the already-damp cloth with her tongue, she could not succeed!

Quirrell howled with delirious laughter, could hardly believe the banquet laid out for him by Satan. The turban skulker stalking sorcerer laughed meanly again, cleared his head of all but victory and inverted philos, and took the wriggling mewling sexiness girl with him to his lair in the dungeon, which was strewn with crocodile bones and sentient slime molds trapped in amber and pixies turned into living dolls, limbs useless and mouths and anuses sealed shut so they were corpulent blue Buddha repositories of rotting shit and blackened bile and webs of saliva with nowhere to escape. From time to time Quirrell would press his ear to their faces and take in the faint screams of idiot agony.

Anyhow, Ms Granger was well and truly captive now, and struggled and gave muffled moans. Quirrell cackled for Lord Voldemort's benefit and readied the Conduit...soon, so very soon. The Return was nigh.

Though all seemed lost. Professor Snape had watched the kidnapping, felt pity in his periocarditis heart; after communing with the Energy lying dormant in the World and telepathically re-arranging the night-ions and air-currents to allow him to chase faster and quieter, he follows the Quirrell and Hemrione.

All was proceeding according to Snape's plan.

To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

'Who can tell me,' drawled Professor Flitwick, 'how one can identify a werewolfs by his blood sample alone?'

Harry and Ron shared a blank look, while a few seats back, Draco grinned in supercilious sinister sprightliness of Satanic Slytherin supremacy. 'By the iron level: wolfish blood far, far exceeds the hemoglobin of any baseline human. Some 630 mcg/dL would not be remarkable for a werewolf in human form.' Draco and Crabbe and Goyle threw their heads back and cackled at this small victory, what with the Hermione absernce.

Flitwick nodded like a dwarf of sageness and gangrenous anal cyst debilitation. 'Yes my dear boy that would be _positively _anemic for a wolf-man however since 900 mcg/dL is not unheard of like that gypsy creep Fenrir Greyback for example.' Five points for Slytherin! Crabbe and Goyle hooted and Harry and Potter and Finegan sulked.

'WHAT DO WE HAVE HERE DR FLITWICK!' It was the voice of Alaster Moody with the eye that could see through walls and flesh and girls' locker-rooms. He dragged Cho Chang along with him: the girl was bound and cleave-gagged just like Lynda Carter in "Deadly Dolphin" and drooling profusely, her squinty eyes wide with terror.

'THE WEE LASS THOUGHT SHE'D TURN TRUANT FROM YER CLASS, DR DEAR! BEGOSH AND BEGORRA, LADDY, KEEP A CLOSER LOOK ON THE LITTLE BITCH NEXT TIME!' said Moody wisely, towering over his captive like Cuchulainn ccome from the Killashandra mists, captive leprechaun in tow.

The students looked with surprise at the seventh-year girl of mewling tenderness pussy resignation. All at once, overcome by shame and panic and dishonor, the Chang defecated, running down her skirt and shapely bare legs onto the stone floor. It was red-flecked diarrhea of old rice and moldy Shaobing and putrid Thestral scrotums.

'Dass cray, yo!' said Dean Thomas, aghast. Such was the disorder and shock that his neighbor Semaus Finnegan leaned over and puked on the black boy's lap;a stream thicker than molasses, amber-coloured and malodorous as a corpse lying out in the summer heat for five days.

Ron gasped and prayed for Cho Chang's succor, Flitwick stuttered and desperarely supplicated the long-forgotten lamentful ghosts of Godric Gryffindor's harem, and Harry laughed so hard snot came out his nose.

Moody licked the Chang scapula and departed, limping away swiftly on his termite-infested peg-leg and scrotum itchy and inflamed with botfly eggs.

Menwhile, Severus Snape closes in on Mr Quirrell's lair but time is running out for Hemrione Granger. Who can predict what tribulations await the Hogwarts Potions professor on this rescue mission.

To be contnuend.


	5. Chapter 5

The very air down here felt _thick as a shroud_; memories chase you, be they yours or someone else's. And oh yes was Snape hounded. Vivid images and sounds he thought he'd forgotten: watching his Squib sister drown in the backyard pool when he was four, mystified; using his legilimens proficiency as a twelve-year-old to blackmail neighbor children and their parents; as a young man, abducting a Veela at extreme personal risk, glamoring her to appear like Lily and inseminating her, an act which he'd only ever told Albus Dunmblefore about. The Snape remembered all this and soberly took it in, like a half-dead drill instructor discerning derangement in recruits of hopeful insomnia and unaccountable earnestness.

Anyway, not so far from the racing Snape, perfidious Quirrell has Hermione Granger captive! She is stretched out on the rack, tied up so very tightly that in time she will at risk for cut-off blood circulation, and she is cleave-gagged so tautly that she is like Marlene Dauden in "Combat Killers", only soaked with drool. And she is prepared for sacrifice, with Dr Quirrell hunching over her like a rapist satyr. Before the girl's eyes he disrobed all but his turban, revealing a slim body paler than any mushroom, at least where not blackened by infected sores weeping orange-yellow pus, a botched skin-graft on his left thigh, swollen gangrenous scrotum of intense malodor and disfavor, various eruptions and papules on his back and shoulders, a massive abscess where his left breast should have been which oozed a milky fluid, and puckered burn scars on his belly rougher than rhinoceros hide, and a large penis ridden with Peyronie's Disease plaques and grievously crooked.

'And now,' said Quirrell to the struggling sexiness girl Hemrione, 'Behold the Dark Emperor of the Arcane, Ascendant Once More.' The man unwrapped his turban and discarded it, and turned his head about, revealing the wrinkled masticating visage of Lord Voldemort as he was so many years ago. It was the face of avarice; he was as a djinn of contumely and cunning and senescent lunacy. Now...woe comes to Hogwarts, said Voledmort. Ready the Conduit, you foolish rascal!

Dr Quirrell cackled like a crow of appeasement and imminent septicemia fatality. 'At once, my niggardly Master.' He walked over and grabbed the Conduit...only for an impact and a thunderous roar to make a farce of the whole enterprise! Severus Snape at the threshold, alert and erect, slinging spells and destroying the Conduit singlehandedly.

Voldemort and his hapless host of idiocy and catastrophic systemic infection howled in outrage.

Severus, you jackanapes! bellowed the Dark Lord, and Quirrell's face twisted with anger as if he were the Ramses charioteer cutting a swath through the hordes of Mutawalli II on the black plains of Kadesh.

Lo! Quirrell and Snape battled in this hour, the one nude and frenzied, the other robed and lost in serene interruptory stolidness, each vying to slay his foe while Voldemort gave helpful advice. Despite managing, _sans _wand, to induce agnosia and brief Cotard's Delusion in the Snape brain, Quirrell was cast down to the stone, a fist-sized hole blasted through his chest. His soul, fallen into Hell, was claimed by Abaddon, where the gleeful demon gnawed on his flank and legs in a welter of corrupt blood and broken bones and unending torment.

As for the Dark Lord, he fled, though not before cursing Snape and Hermione and all her kin. The Potions Professor wiped sweat from his brow and freed Ms Granger, who was unharmed, but excited by Severus Snape's display of prowess; she was an overflowing cup of lust and pussy desires.

Startled by sudden footfalls, they turned as one...Dunbledore.

To be continued.


	6. Chapter 6

It was Dumblefore. He stood there, all easy mastery and niggardly gravitas. His smile was a rare thing.

Hemrione covered herself and Snape promptly began to explain the recent altercation to his employer Dumbledore, but the old man waved a hand and said 'There's no need, Severus. Say no more. I knew Professor Quirrell was compromised, and couldn't be trusted. I knew he was harboring Voldemort. I knew he plotted to prey on Hogwarts students. Furthermore, I knew his dark plans involved the Conduit, and Miss Granger.'

The ambience of the room shifted, in ways only understood by Albus Dumbledore: his powers extended to many of the particles of the matter and air around him. It all required considerable concentration, and the whole business was not without its risks, but Dr Dumbledore was capable of incredible feats.

'I have...many questions,' murmbled Snape.

'I have long since deduced that _ad hoc _rationalization is the prosthesis we have always used to compensate for our inability to directly access the synergy-' began Hermione, but Dumbledore snapped his fingers, and the girl found herself unconscious and Snape caught her as she fell.

'Her analysis is far off the mark,' said Dumbledore, and he chuckled lightly, like an avuncular

Later that evening everyone celebrated the victory over Quirrell and Voldemort and the Dark Wizards and feasting. Harry Potter contemplated werewolf physiology while Ronald Weaselly flirted with Cho Chang, Hermione loudly complained about the ergonomics of the Sorting Hat, and Joe Rogan and Hugh Jackman jerked each other's cocks in the broom closet.

At the train station, Hagrid loomed over the kids and faculty like a cantankerous cretin colossus of compelling critters. Dumbledore and MxGonagall and Snape and Moody were out waving to the students goodbye, but some like Draco Malfoy and his goons pretended not to notice. Ronald and Cho Chang kissed and departed, Seamus shook hands with Marcus Flint, Neville Longbottom sobbed as he was frog-marched into the train by Michael Corner and Theodore Nott while everyone pointed and laughed, none louder than Harry Potter, whose thought turned to Petunia, many miles away.

The end.


End file.
